Nay, ’twere a task outbalancing thy power,
  Nor can the almost-omnipotence of mind
  Away from aching bind the bleeding heart,
  Or keep at will its mighty sorrow down. 
  And, were the white flames of the world below
  Binding my forehead with undying pain,
  The lily crowns of heaven I would put back,
  If thou wert there, lost light of my young dream!—­
  Hope, opening with the faint flowers of the wood,
  Bloomed crimson with the summer’s heavy kiss,
  But autumn’s dim feet left it in the dust,
  And like tired reapers my lorn thoughts went down
  To the gloom-harvest of a hopeless love,
  For past all thought I loved thee:  Listening close
  From the soft hour when twilight’s rosy hedge
  Sprang from the fires of sunset, till deep night
  Swept with her cloud of stars the face of heaven,
  For the quick music, from the pavement rung
  Where beat the impatient hoof-strokes of the steed,
  Whose mane of silver, like a wave of light,
  Bathed the caressing hand I pined to clasp! 
  It is as if a song-lark, towering high
  In pride of place, should stoop her sun-bathed wing,
  Low as the poor hum of the grasshopper. 
    I scorn thee not, old man; no haunting ghost
  Born of the darkness of thy perjury
  Crosses the white tent of my dreaming now
  But for myself, that I should so have loved!—­
  The sweet folds of that blessed charity,
  Pure as the cold veins of Pentelicus,
  Were all too narrow now to hide away
  One burning spot of shame—­the wretched price
  Of proving traitor to the wondrous star
  That with a cloud of splendor wraps my way. 
  And yet, from the bright wine-cup of my life,
  The rosy vintage, bubbling to the brim,
  Thou With a passionate lip didst drain away
  And to God’s sweet gift—­human sympathy—­
  Making my bosom dumb as the dark grave,
  Didst leave me drifting on the waste of life,
  A fruitless pillar of the desert dust;
  For, from the ashes of a ruined hope
  There springs no life but an unwearied woe
  That feeding upon sunken lip and cheek
  Pushes its victims from mortality. 
  Vainly the light rain of the summer time
  Waters the dead limbs of the blasted oak. 
    Love is the worker of all miracles;
  And if within some cold and sunless cave
  Thou hadst lain lost and dying, prompted not
  My feet had struck that pathway, and I could,
  With the neglected sunshine of my hair,
  Have clasped thee from the hungry jaws of Death,
  And on my heart, as on a wave of light
  Have lulled thee to the beauty of soft dreams. 
    Weak, weak imagination! be dissolved
  Like a chance snowflake in a sea of fire. 
  Let the poor-spirited children of Despair
  Hang on the sepulchre of buried Hope
  The fadeless garlands of undying song. 
  Though such gift turned on its pearly hinge